


Equation

by Minuialeth75



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minuialeth75/pseuds/Minuialeth75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was probably ruining Sherlock's coat with his blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equation

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for hbmimicute as part of the Johnlock Challenges Grab Bag Challenge. My prompt was: "I dare you to try."

"I dare you to try." John Watson's voice was cool and collected. The hand holding the Browning was sure and steady. His stance was controlled. It wasn't the doctor standing in the alleyway, but the Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. 

The young man facing him couldn't have been more different. So jittery that it was a miracle he hadn't already dropped his gun. He looked barely out of teenagehood and bore signs of drug addiction. John briefly wondered if the shakes were due to nerves or to the beginnings of withdrawal. His usual dealer was dead, after all.  
He could have pitied the boy if he hadn't just tried to shoot Sherlock dead. That and the other two people he had murdered under the orders of his amateur dealer, who had been third in line for a big inheritance that would have solved most of his problems. The young man, Brian, had been the part-time gardener of the family. Sherlock had qualified the case of dull and boring, but it had come after a long drought of above-average murders, so he had accepted to look into it. John was still persuaded that the detective had solved the case during Lestrade's phone call.

They both had been hiding under a porch, waiting for Brian to come home. Sherlock – on the hunt, adrenaline-fuelled, reckless Sherlock – had darted off after the boy as soon as he had spotted him, when it had become obvious that he wasn't going to walk by them. John had immediately followed at breakneck speed, grateful – not for the first time – that he still retained most of his soldier form. But Sherlock had longer legs and that had meant that John was lagging a bit behind.  
The boy had taken a sharp turn in an alley, Sherlock hot on his tails. When John had caught up with them, it was to witness the chilling spectacle of Brian taking aim at Sherlock with a gun. John had quickly quashed his terror, switching to full soldier mode, and had violently tackled Sherlock to the ground as a shot echoed in the air. He had kept rolling and unfurled standing up, his Browning out of his belt and in his steady hand without even thinking about it.

Now they were locked in a face-off, John trying to ignore the churning in his gut because it was very quiet behind him. He couldn't turn to take a look at Sherlock so he didn't know if the bullet had hit him or not. He tried to tell himself that at least he had had a chance to save him. If he still had been limping, Sherlock would surely be dead, his blood spilling on the dirty pavement.

"I was a soldier. I'm faster than you. Think about it," John added to his earlier challenge, feeling like he was quoting a bad line from a western movie.  
He wanted to make the boy see some sense and drop his gun, but he doubted Brian had enough brain power left to fully grasp the seriousness of his situation.  
That was when he heard it. It wasn't a threatening noise so that was probably why his adrenaline saturated brain hadn't registered it at first. A faint scraping coming from behind him. _Sherlock_. Elation and relief spread through him.  
He must have unconsciously moved his head a little, even if he knew he couldn't look behind him. He wouldn't remember later. He would remember the gunshot, his own fingers reflexively tightening on the trigger, the recoil of the Browning before it fell from his hand, and searing, excruciating pain in his shoulder. Suddenly the sounds and smell of London were replaced by the dry heat of Afghanistan as the world tilted around him. Instead of the shock of the hard ground, his body was gingerly lowered down, his head cushioned on something soft and giving.

"John, John!" Sherlock's voice was close to his ear, sounding like nothing he had ever heard before: distressed, full of panic. "Yes, I need an ambulance…" Sherlock's voice had changed back to its usual clipped tone, and John understood after a moment of confusion that he was on the phone.

He must have drifted off for a bit because suddenly, he could hear the siren of an ambulance. His whole torso felt like it was on fire, and the all too familiar pain brought back memories he desperately tried to push away. This wasn't Afghanistan, his wound would get immediate treatment in a clean hospital, everything would be "alright, John, everything is going to be alright, the ambulance is coming for you," Sherlock was saying in a soothing and soft tone John wouldn't have suspected he was capable of without pretending. In a flash of full cognition, he realised that his head was cradled on Sherlock's lap, and that he must have come back to his senses because of Sherlock's fingers gently brushing his jaw. He didn't think his friend was aware he was doing it.  
A thought came unbidden. He was probably ruining Sherlock's coat with his blood. Then the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness came.

___________________________________

Of course, in the end, he had had to resort to calling Mycroft for his help. Firstly because John was going to be put in a room with someone else and really, this had been intolerable. How did they expect him to get better rapidly if he didn't get any rest because of a noisy roommate?  
Mycroft had made a few phone calls of his own, and soon after his surgery, John had been transferred to a nice – well, as nice as hospitals rooms could be – and _individual_ room.  
He knew that John was going to protest at not being treated like everyone else when he would finally wake up from his drug-induced sleep, but he couldn't care less. John wasn't everyone else. He was _John_. Except that he didn't look like John right now. He looked small, frail and pale in the customary hospital bed, an IV needle in his right hand. At least the blood was gone. There had been so much blood that even knowing that nothing vital had been hit by the bullet, it had been near impossible to not feel... deep worry.

He had realised that he had always seen John as his steadfast, solid, reliable blogger, doctor, colleague and dear friend. He was always the reckless one, so it had never occurred to him that John could be the one to get seriously injured in their adventures. True, there had been the pool, but they had both come out of it unscathed. It should have been a warning, but he hadn't heeded it.  
He seldom took the possibility of harm coming to him into account; otherwise he wouldn't get anything done. The Work came first. But John... John protected him. He had done so since the very beginning. This fact put him into the path of danger. He had to try and integrate John to the equation of the Work. Think about him before taking rash decisions. He never wished to sit again on a highly uncomfortable plastic chair in a cold room for hours, waiting for a surgeon to tell him about John's state.  
He had had to phone Mycroft for this too, since he wasn't next of kin. And then he had had to phone again so the nurses, the doctors and then security stopped trying to throw him out of John's room. The visiting hours were ridiculous.  
He wouldn't leave the room until John awoke. It was a good thing his body didn't need much food or sleep because he had gone without both since John had been hospitalised.  
His eyes came back to the bulk of bandages covering John's wound, hidden under the white hospital gown. His mind kept conjuring ghastly images of what the bandages concealed. That's probably why he didn't notice that John's eyes were open until he spoke.

______________________________________

It was like dragging himself up to the water's surface, weighted down by heavy clothes. Nothing felt painful but the cottony feel of his brain told him it was because he was still heavily drugged. Morphine, probably. The sensation in his shoulder was very familiar. Not exactly a dull ache, but more like something was pressing on it. He knew all too well how it would feel when the drugs started wearing off.  
He slowly opened his eyes because he didn't want to be greeted by the painful searing of light on his retinas. Something big and dark was close to him. He blinked a few times and Sherlock swam into focus. He looked terrible. Even in his worst fits of boredom, he always shaved. He had never seen him with that much stubble. He was slumped in a chair by his bed, still wearing his coat, his usually ridiculously fluffy curls flat and tangled, possibly from running his fingers through them one time too many. There were dark stains on the coat and John realised it was probably his blood.  
It was dark outside. He had no idea of how long Sherlock had been sitting here. Usually after a case he would fall into a deep and much needed slumber but it was obvious from the dark circles under his eyes that it had not been the case. He opened his mouth to say something, and had to push his voice through a sore throat.

"I've ruined your coat," he whispered in a rough voice. Sherlock started, which said a lot about his state of exhaustion. He hadn't noticed he had woken up.  
He stared for a beat, his usually unfathomable grey eyes a bit confused. Then they lit up.  
"The no-doubt astronomical fee of the dry cleaner will be deduced from your salary, of course," he said in a dry tone. His voice was hoarse, like he had not used it for a while.  
"Since you're not paying me, that's not much of a threat."  
One lip-corner lifted up. Sherlock was looking more like his old-self.

His brain remembered the first question it had wanted to ask before going on a tangent.  
"Brian?"  
"He's dead. I'm sorry."  
Now that was unusual coming from Sherlock. "You're sorry? Why?"  
"It's been twice now you had to kill a man because of me."  
"Because of... you clot. Brian was going to kill you, and then he shot me. I, for one, am not sorry he's dead. What happened to him is very sad, yes, but I can't be sorry he's dead and you're alive."  
"You're alive too," Sherlock said.  
"Yes, well observed."  
"No need to be a smart arse." Sherlock's tone wasn't as sharp as it should have been.  
"You're exhausted. You should go to the flat and sleep. You look like you need it."  
"Is it my doctor speaking?"  
"Yes, and your friend, too. I know you always crash after a case yet I'm sure you stayed here. Why?"  
"I couldn't leave until you regained consciousness."  
"It's not like I'm in a serious state. You could have gone back to the flat. The hospital would have called you."  
"Would _you_ have left?"  
"It's different, I'm your doctor."  
"You would have stayed as my doctor only?"  
"No, of course not. You know that." He frowned. "You _know_ that, right?"  
Sherlock hesitated, then slowly nodded once. But John had learnt to see through most of his poker faces. Even as fuzzy as his mind still was with the meds, he could see that Sherlock didn't really understand what he was trying to mean. But now wasn't the time for that kind of conversation. Later, when he was better and back at the flat. "How come you're still here, by the way? It seems it's way past visiting hours."  
"I owe Mycroft several favours now."  
"You _really_ should have gone home. I'm not sleeping until you leave to get some rest, anyway."  
Sherlock didn't rise to the bait, because John's last words had been slightly slurred, and now he kept blinking, more and more slowly. It was obvious he was falling back asleep. At least he didn't look he was in much pain.  


Soon enough, John was fast asleep, his head slightly turned toward him.

Sherlock had told himself he would go when John awoke but now that he had, he found he couldn't bring himself to leave. Well, he could still catch some sleep here. Of course John would be cross but he'd deal with that in the morning. For now, he could feel sleep slowly encroaching on his brain, impeding his thought process.  
The area around the IV needle on the back of John's hand was blueish. He gently touched the skin there, delicately tracing hypnotic patterns.

____________________________________

When John woke up the next morning, his hand felt unnaturally warm. He looked down, thinking that maybe it had become inflamed because of the IV needle. But no. His hand was hot because it was enfolded in Sherlock's. The man's head rested near his hip. Of course he had stayed here to sleep, and had half-slumped on the bed during the night.  
John gently pulled his hand from under Sherlock's and placed it on the dark curls, falling back asleep with a peaceful smile on his face.


End file.
